


paper umbrellas

by leatherandlightning (floatawaysomedays)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floatawaysomedays/pseuds/leatherandlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You did something you shouldn’t have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paper umbrellas

You did something you shouldn’t have.

 

And he knows.

 

You know he knows, because you watched him tilt his head when you met, again. You watched his eyes rake over you, over the circles under your own eyes and the small tilt of your lips at seeing him again until they slipped over your jacket and your arm and landed there. Until he pressed his lips together and became blissfully, deafeningly, silent.

 

You know he knows, because he looks at you differently, expectantly, like he’s waiting, and you want to explain so badly. It all wants to spill out when you meet him in the kitchen and he asks if you want coffee. You think of a hundred ways to say it. You want to tell him you need to talk and you want him to pull out your chair and say he’ll listen, like he always does.

 

You’re just not sure how to tell him that you met a man who sold umbrellas in the eye of a hurricane, and you bought one before the man could warn you it was made of paper. Before it could get away from you, because it’s gotten away from you now and you’re hardly bearing it on your own. The itch under your skin and in the back of your mind, the infinite darkness clawing it’s way into your dreams. You don’t know how to unload your burden without putting all of it on his shoulders, and you can’t do that. You can’t put anything more on him.

 

So, you don’t.

 

You drink your coffee and you sit at the kitchen table and you try not to think about how nice it is to have your calf pressed against his. You can’t look at him. You try not to think about what you might have lost, what might have been. You don’t know how to tell Cas that you’ve been waiting for the storm to stop so you could ask him to dance, and now you might never get the chance.  You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been waiting for the world to stop falling down long enough for you to let go of it, and hold onto him instead. You’d rather hold onto him, you learned that lesson the hard way years ago. You never told him that, either.

 

You think a part of him already knows.

 

It’s why his hand is covering your arm and his mouth is soft against yours in the early morning light. It’s why an angel is curving towards you, against everything. Against the table and against your better judgement. You don’t know why he’s hushing you until you realize your face is wet. You don’t know why you’re crying.  

 

You don’t remember why it was so important for you to do something you shouldn’t have, you just know the consequences are rain and wind and darkness and emptiness that stretches forever.

 

And Cas knows.

  
And it’s okay.


End file.
